It is an unwise man who picks a quarrel with comics. They may not be right; indeed, you may be. But they have the jokes. And that means laughter and the warm regard of the public. Baldrick is almost as close to British hearts as is Homer Simpson. His trick is to play stupid and craven while actually mouthing good sense that every Englishman can identify with. That’s why Michael Gove’s attack on Blackadder is something of an own goal.

It all goes back to the Sixties. Trouble stirred when four young men from Oxbridge with brains and funny voices began mocking their elders and betters: clergymen, Army officers and even politicians. Beyond the Fringe was launched into a world waiting for someone to blow a raspberry in the face of the Establishment. The powers-that-be had held sway long enough. The country had had to hang together to win the war and those elders and betters had got used to being obeyed.

Surely it must be in the national interest to have a hierarchy of respect and obedience. How else could we have defeated the Hun? But the constraints of war were being relaxed. Suddenly, radio producers, theatre impresarios and the like were wondering why censorship should have such a powerful hold.

They decided to test the water. The Beyond the Fringe quartet came from the inner sanctum of Establishment humour, the Cambridge Footlights and Oxford cabaret. So Establishment were these institutions that women weren’t admitted to either. Their sketches took issue with the post-war political scene. Most outrageously, they mocked – and even impersonated – Harold Macmillan, the prime minister, himself. Hearing rumours of it, Macmillan went along to see what the fuss was about. And left bemused.

The death knell was sounding for the world of deference. Private Eye came along next: again, all-male and mostly public school, and it took up the mockery. Then television got in on the act.

The launch of That Was the Week That Was was a national sensation. Its lampooning of the home secretary, Henry Brooke, sealed his fate. The power of bright young people in the media to criticise government was a reality that all politicians have had to live with since. And a new career path was created for those bright young things, who might otherwise have been doctors, lawyers, civil servants and teachers. (Many of them actually qualified as such.) Much more fun and popularity was to be had making jokes. Being a stand-up comedian suddenly became the career to die for. And the television channels loved it.

Now, no quiz show or panel game is complete without a raft of jokes and jibes at those who govern. Has it gone too far? Mr Gove must think so. Whatever happened to respect? The answer is that it went, chucked out in the Sixties, along with a whole heap of hypocrisy and snobbery, secret discriminations and class hierarchies, rendered out-of-date by the churn of war.

The new humour brought a raw honesty where before, deceit had prevailed. The public discovered that people in public life lie. It isn’t something new – it’s just that transparency revealed it.

The latest recourse for politicians is for them to embrace humour: what else is the secret of Boris Johnson’s popularity, though it may well damage his long-term political ambitions? On the other hand, maybe not.

Some comedians are themselves taking up politics: Eddie Izzard is said to be considering running as Mayor of London. Baldrick himself – the actor Tony Robinson – is vocal in support of Labour.

Perhaps politics is now seen by the public as so discredited that it’s time to bring on the clowns. In which case, more than a few will be in for a shock. Running the country is no laughing matter.